


Splinted Armor

by recrudescence



Category: Glee
Genre: Daddy Kink, Incest, M/M, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-19
Updated: 2010-06-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 04:52:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Kurt, I haven't had to say this very often since your Mata Hari phase, but you're not going anywhere looking like that."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Splinted Armor

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt from the Glee Kink Meme: _Burt/Kurt, Catholic school-girl uniform._ Incidentally, someone else filled this too, and it is [fabulously cracktastic](http://community.livejournal.com/glee_kink_meme/1224.html?thread=3546568#t3546568).

  
"What is..." Like so many other occasions concerning his son's fashion choices, Burt couldn't find the words. "What have you got on, exactly?"

Kurt give him a pitying look, which was understandable. It wasn't as if the ensemble didn't speak for itself. "I'm going to that party tonight. At Santana's. I told you the other day."

"And you're wearing that." No question necessary. Burt knew his face had to be speaking more volubly than mere punctuation could ever express. His kid was standing by the front door in a short pleated skirt, knee socks, and a pair of black buckled shoes that somehow made his oversized feet look demure instead of clownish. Dainty silk tie around his neck. Neat red bow clipped behind one ear. He was used to seeing Kurt leave the house in some unusual outfits, but Burt had to put his foot down somewhere. There were a lot of words he could use to describe Kurt's wardrobe, but _whorish_ had never been among them until now.

"It's a tarts and vicars party," Kurt was explaining. "Mercedes is my vicar," he added, with an adoring little smile. "I have to go over and help do her makeup. She needs help mastering the smoky eye." He pointed to his own, which were darkly shaded and almost too earnest by contrast. Bedroom eyes. Burt stared. Surely he wasn't wearing fake eyelashes. _Surely_. "It takes a lot of work to look this cheap."

He didn't waste his breath by asking why Kurt couldn't have been the vicar. "Kurt, I haven't had to say this very often since your Mata Hari phase, but you're not going anywhere looking like that."

"Dad, relax. The jocks always keep their distance because I freak them out. If any guy touches me, it'll be to mess up my hair." Even as he spoke, he was absently smoothing it back towards that little red bow. "I can handle myself."

"It doesn't matter _who_ touches you. If you were my daughter, I wouldn't let you out in that getup."

"I'm not a girl." Kurt was scowling, mouth dangerously close to a self-contradictory pout.

"You're acting like you want to be. That it, Kurt? You wanna be somebody's girl?" Sadly looking at him, watching those blackened lashes drooping and those glossy lips fall open. Kurt stood rigidly, folding his arms in their prim white blouse. "Don't get me wrong, I love that you're not scared to show the world who you are. But this ain't how. Being gay is one thing and being a different person is another. Turning the closet inside out isn't any better than hiding in it."

"I never expected you to understand." Okay, that hurt. "And that metaphor makes practically no sense." He turned towards the door, hemline swishing dangerously high.

"Look at this." And Kurt's hands were flying up in protest as Burt took hold of the little plaid skirt between two fingers. His knuckles brushed bare skin and both of them flinched. Showing more leg than should be shown, and it was smooth. Did he _shave_? "One wrong move and everyone's gonna see what you had for breakfast. I thought you were a...what is it? An 'arbiter of taste.' Not of this crap."

Kurt's eyes were huge and his face was pale under his foundation. "Dad, it's just a costume. Campiness, to a degree, is inherent." And he stepped aside enough to free himself, smoothing the fabric back into place over the small portion of his thighs it actually covered.

"Yeah, well, dressing up like this isn't gonna make the entire basketball team want you."

"No, but if someone over-imbibes and isn't too picky, I might at least get _kissed_." He was clearly trying to be glib, but the possibility made Burt's blood freeze.

"That's it. You're not going. Call Mercedes and say you won't be coming over."

"That isn't fair." Damned if that tone, combined with the outfit, didn't make him sound even younger.

"You talk to your dad about getting drunk and kissing while you're wearing a damn miniskirt, you gotta expect something like this."

Kurt was glaring at him with narrowed eyes. "Nice. Killing my social life now that I actually _have_ one. I hope that's made your evening. I really do." He shrugged off his shoulder bag and spread his arms. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Something had caught his eye. Burt hesitated, then gestured, brusquely sweeping the tie over his son's shoulder so he could get a better look. "Yeah. Unbutton that."

For a moment, Kurt looked panicked. "That really isn't necessary."

Burt leveled his gaze and waited.

Shaky fingers, buttons through buttonholes, and there was the flash of lace, clearly visible. Kurt timidly obeying, as if all the fight had abruptly drained right out of him. And fuck all if the image of his kid being silent and subservient while wearing what amounted to a _fetish_ costume didn't make Burt suck in his breath.

One time.

Working late in the garage, on the last task of the day, just replacing a timing belt, but they'd been exhausted and Kurt had practically been comatose on the workbench. Just enough energy between the two of them to go about packing up tools and changing out of coveralls. Burt falling into the one big armchair in the tiny but immaculately decorated waiting area, Kurt perching on the arm, looking just as tired, and Burt had shifted enough to let him share the seat and drowse.

"You're a good kid." He'd said it without even realizing it.

Kurt had looked a little surprised, but he'd rested his head on his shoulder and given a contented sigh when Burt kissed his forehead impulsively. "You're a pretty okay dad."

Just one time, and it all came flooding back to him now. Burt's arms around him and Kurt's head on his shoulder, both of them cradled by that oversized chair. Kind of odd for his teenaged son to be practically in his lap, but it was comfortable and Kurt liked to be reassured by touch since he never got it anywhere else. He didn't have a mother anymore and Burt had to make up for that somehow.

Kurt had been the first to doze off, passing out in his arms with limbs splayed and the scent of his hair, clean and slightly sweaty, under Burt's nose. He hadn't had the heart to wake him to go home, and not long afterward had fallen asleep himself. Eventually waking up to Kurt squirm-shifting in his sleep and his mouth open against the side of Burt's throat, Burt with a hand resting a little too low on Kurt's middle to be safe, and he'd been fucking _hard_ against his own kid. Hadn't taken more than a glance to realize Kurt was as well, and he'd tried to move away as deliberately as possible, but Kurt had only opened his eyes and _gasped_, sounding far too much like his mother for comfort. It had crossed his mind, with all the poise of a mortar explosion, that this was what his kid probably got off on—thoughts of another guy getting turned on around him.

They'd driven home in silence and never alluded to it.

And now Kurt was standing before him with red-stained cheeks and a half-open blouse, delicate lace of a bra in plain sight. An actual _bra_, the kind meant for girls who didn't have anything to fill one out yet but wanted to wear one anyway. Thin cloth, pale pink, lighter than the patches of color steadily darkening on his son's face. "Kurt." Quietly.

"It...it was just supposed to be fun." And he arched and trembled when Burt's finger hooked into the center of it, toying with the childish plastic clasp. Undoing it, and Kurt's nipples were taut and tiny when the fabric fell away, his son's face blushing and averted, bangs falling out of his barrette, one hand coming up to grip around Burt's wrist.

He couldn't lose his kid. He'd told himself that so many times. "People are gonna love you the way you are, without getting smashed first. Don't try to be a pinup for the jackass brigade. You don't deserve that." Taking Kurt's face in his cupped hand before he could look away, Kurt's lips parted like a cherub's and those storm-blue eyes glittering under black fans of lashes.

"I..." He sounded breathless, like he was on the edge of losing some kind of control that Burt couldn't put a name to. There were a lot of things about Kurt he couldn't categorize, but he never loved him any less. "I just wanted..."

"You do your thing or whatever it is you need to do to be true to yourself, but not like this. Okay, son? Not like this." Burt couldn't recall the last time his voice had sounded so lost.

"I'm _sorry_." Still holding tightly to his wrist, Burt's hand pressed flush with the bared area of his chest. Kurt's heartbeat was a frantic reveille that resonated along the lines of his palm. Then those arms were folding around him, heat of Kurt's body seeming to burn through his own shirt, and both Burt's arms automatically did the same in response.

"_You're a good kid._" The same words, once again uttered before Burt registered what he was saying. Kurt was _shaking_ against him now, and it was like that evening in the garage, only he'd done such a good job at keeping his mind from that. Such a damn good job. Kurt's breath hitching wetly at his shoulder, Kurt's back arcing under his hands, Kurt giving the same shocked little sound he'd made upon waking before.

"The timing belt," Kurt whispered against his cheek in a voice that was soft and sweet and desperate and had Burt's spine snapping ramrod-straight so abruptly there was no way Kurt _couldn't_ notice it. "You didn't say anything after, Dad. Why didn't you say anything?" Pushing his body forward enough to let Burt hold him even tighter, and there wasn't any way in the world to ignore the nudge of an erection against his thigh. Just there, through his jeans and the prissy little pleats of Kurt's skirt. He started, Kurt's hands stroking his back like apologies. "You could've. _Why_?"

Burt couldn't answer. He couldn't think of how to articulate that he actually felt _bad_ for not addressing what had happened instead of sparing both of their sensibilities by ignoring it. He couldn't figure out which was worse. Sometimes it seemed like nothing with Kurt was ever easy. "How'd we get like this, huh?" Kurt's lips were warm and pliant under the pad of his thumb and he let his eyes drift closed when Burt smoothed back a strand of hair. "How'd we get like this?"

Hand creeping upward, Kurt guiding him with fingers ringed around his wrist a second time, mouth open a little like he was waiting for a kiss or just too far gone to keep it closed. He could feel the heat of Kurt's exhale on his cheek like an actual caress. "Because I love you. That's how. That's all."

Burt didn't think to stop him, even when the wool of the skirt was brushing his knuckles and Kurt's skin was hot under his fingertips. Smooth pale thighs and a simple white pair of underpants—not girls', to Burt's relief, but plain cotton briefs that fit snugly against Kurt's form, outline of his cock clearly visible. "I wouldn't really do anything with a drunk jock." Kurt's hips pressing up, chin tilting up, Burt's fingers tracing out the shape of him, and he could see the frantic rise and fall of Kurt's chest where it showed between the partially unfastened halves of his blouse. "Don't you know me better than that?" Almost _pleading_. "Don't you know I have standards?"

He was trying. Wanting to apologize or condemn or make it right however he could. Trying to draw his hand free as carefully as possible, let go so he could _leave_. Send Kurt to go change, then sit him down to talk about whatever it was that twisted this particular hairpin turn into their lives. Anything remotely rational. Three thousand parenting books ruffled their pages against the insides of Burt's skull, frenzied wingbeats of good advice and motivational chapter titles like _Going Through Phases_.

"Please don't, Daddy, don't, it's okay." Nearly inaudible, fingers twisting into Burt's shirt, face ducked down. Kurt never called him that unless he was too emotional to check himself and it tore at Burt's heart. "Please keep going."

The word should have been all wrong. All the confusion and fury of adolescence churned in with the little innocent things that children do, like Kurt sending home letters sealed with a kiss from his first summer at camp, after fifth grade. Burt had just read them with good humor and a vague wonderment as to how Kurt had come across lipstick out there at all.

And Kurt was hugging him close and rocking against him, pressing quick little kisses to the side of his face. "_Dad._"

It took a little while, but then he had a hand up that pressed white blouse, initiating a dual effort to tear it down Kurt's arms and off. Palming him through those briefs and feeling him hard under the cloth, there in the front hallway with a hand up his son's skirt, until Kurt had the presence of mind to undo it enough for him to wriggle and yank it over his head, and Burt's mouth was on his and Kurt's knee socks were on but little else was. _Fuck_. Right by the door with the "Best Dad Ever" card Kurt had made in second grade that Burt had kept framed in the hall ever since. Kurt's bare schoolgirl knees on either side of his hips, back crushed to the wall and ankles locked behind his back, sobbing against Burt's mouth and _asking_. For more, for kisses, to know if _he_ was okay. No one ever asked him that as regularly as Kurt.

Down. Between them, touching, fingers questing ineptly as Kurt gripped at his flannel and curved against him. Slipping his hand under the waistband to feel him hard and hot-damp in his hand, pulses of liquid steadily streaming over the length of him—so red, so hard, when he drew him out and Kurt cursed and whined and convulsed against his hand, bare and beautiful and absolutely undone. Hot little gasps for oxygen, come on his stomach, hands ripping buttons from Burt's shirt and his face nuzzling there, catlike, tongue licking and teeth nipping. Burt's hand tangled in his hair and tongue thrusting into his mouth, coaxing every last moan out of him.

When Kurt went limp against him, still holding on so hard, there was only silence. Burt didn't know how much time passed before he quietly broke it. "You okay?"

Strawberry lip gloss on his tongue and Kurt's chin. Kurt's legs cinching a tad more firmly around him, Kurt's nails light and curious against his scalp, Kurt's head falling back in a lazy nod. "Thank you."

"Let's clean you up, all right?" Setting him on the ground and kissing him lightly on the lips, finally feeling his son smile.

Burt had always stood by a few ground rules. No judging Kurt, no pushing Kurt to come to terms with anything before he was ready. He'd do anything for his kid before he'd let him lie to himself. Burt didn't always understand the things Kurt wanted, from waistcoats to wigstands, but he'd always given what he could. Not sure how someone like him had helped produce this brilliant, sharp-witted kid who never held back and never regretted. Not sure how long either of those traits were going to last anymore, but hoping they would.

And Kurt was looking up at him with sheer adoration, not a glance spared for the clothes scattered on the floor. Taking his hand and seriously saying, "Dad. It's okay. I promise."

Something serious had happened, in too many ways to number, but Burt believed him anyway.


End file.
